The Magnus Archives - The Magnus Protocol 4 – Taking Notes

Episode Date: February 1, 2024

CAT3C7494-19111831-29012024Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]Incident Elements:· Blood· Gore· Violence· Hysteria· Suicide· Self-harmTranscripts: https://shorturl.at/gzF15This Episode is dedicated to Louise Ironside, Mimie, JC, Harrow & Ivy, thank you for your generous support! You can a complete list of our Kickstarter backers https://rustyquill.com/the-magnus-protocol-supporter-wall/Created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J NewallDirected by Alexander J NewallWritten by Cole Weavers (for more of his work visit https://www.thetownwhispers.com/)Script Editing with Additional Materials by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J NewallExecutive Producers April Sumner, Alexander J Newall, Jonathan Sims, Dani McDonough, Linn Ci, and Samantha F.G. HamiltonAssociate Producers Jordan L. Hawk, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, Cetius d’Raven, and Megan NiceProduced by April SumnerFeaturing (in order of appearance)Billie Hindle as Alice DyerShahan Hamza as Samama KhalidAnusia Battersby as Gwendolyn BouchardTim Fearon as AugustusSarah Lambie as Lena KelleyPaul Schmidt as KlausDialogue Editor – Lowri Ann DaviesSound Designer – Tessa VroomMastering Editor - Catherine RinellaMusic by Sam Jones (orchestral mix by Jake Jackson)Art by April SumnerSFX from Soundly, Freesound (CCO): kyles and previously creditedSupport us on Patreon at https://patreon.com/rustyquillCheck out our merchandise available at https://www.redbubble.com/people/RustyQuill/shopand https://www.teepublic.com/stores/rusty-quillJoin our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillTWITTER: @therustyquillREDDIT: reddit.com/r/RustyQuillEMAIL: [e-mail] Magnus Protocol is a derivative product of the Magnus Archives, created by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share alike 4.0 International Licence. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Louise Ironside, to the greatest friends I could wish for, to my craft fair companion Mimi, to JC who's kept me sane with endless walks, and ultimately to Harrow and Ivy, here's to another two decades and more. Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Protocol Episode 4 Taking Notes I'm what. What the hell, Sam? What? Don't what me. I invented what. I honestly don't know what you're on about.

I just received a security notification. About me? Someone was trying to access restricted files, and my money is on you. Why would you be getting those notifications? I shouldn't be. But you should be damn glad that this I shouldn't be. But you should be damn glad that this system doesn't do anything like it should. If Colin caught wind of this, he would have a meltdown. Right, well, thanks, I guess. Apparently, you tried searching for files

with the terms Magnus and Protocol. That's what this is about? I mean, yeah, okay, I got a case referencing the Magnus Institute and then I looked it up and found a few files on the system that mentioned using the protocol. Why would that be restricted? Because we work for the government and the government loves secrets, you dickhead. Oh, right, yeah, I get it. Listen, Sam, I don't know what the protocol is, but a couple of the old guard mentioned it over the years. The way they talked about it, it's high-level stuff. You do not want to get found anywhere near it,

never mind openly looking it up. Well, I mean, it isn't exactly as though I'm... This is not something you go poking around in. Not if you want to keep your job or your neck. Well, I mean, it isn't exactly as though I'm... This is not something you go poking around in. Not if you want to keep your job or your neck. Okay, okay. I get it. Consider me scared straight. I'm serious. I don't want you getting in Starkwall. Starkwall? Wait, Starkwall? As in the San Pedro Square Massacre? Starkwall. The private military contractors, yeah. I thought this was supposed to be a boring office job. It was, until you started messing around. Huh? You could at least pretend you weren't talking about me.

Oh, damn. You caught us. I was just telling Sam how important it is that he focuses on his work. Otherwise, he'll end up trapped here like you forever. Of course you were. Well, keep it down. Some of us do actual work here. At our job. Which pays us. Yep. Yep, no did.

Hey, Augustus! Feels like I haven't heard him in forever. So, is this like a rare voice? Kinda. It's usually Chester or Norris. Augustus is a bit of a special occasion. I'm Norris. Augustus is a bit of a special occasion. Firstly, they don't have names. Stop trying to give them names. Secondly, can I please just get on with my job? Sorry, I'm not. My nephew, if you are reading these words, then I am already gone and can offer no assurances as to the truth of them. You must simply trust in their veracity and import. Keep what you read close to you, and

secret, for as long as you may live. I must hope that what lamentable inheritance I am able to offer might solicit a modicum of that familial affection which I have neglected to display in years past. Nephew, to you I leave my violin, an instrument of the finest craftsmanship. I will confess I once harboured the notion to dismantle the thing, or consign it to the fire, but I have at times been called covetous, and perhaps there is some merit to such an accusation, for I cannot now bring myself to do so. There's been a great deal of rain here this last fortnight, which has been strangely pleasing to my maudlin mood, and has brought with it some nostalgia for that dreary summer you took residence with me.

I flatter myself to think that I might have imprinted upon you some part of myself in that time together, and perhaps in this way I seek to keep hold of my prized violin still. I have never spoken of how I came to possess this violin to a living soul, but I must now confide the truth of it to you, for it and its history are now yours. I was a young man, now yours. I was a young man, younger than you are now, when I was called to try my talents before the Royal Court Orchestra of the Palatinate. Whilst I must confess the thought of leaving the material comforts of Annecabee caused me trepidation, in truth I had little to say in the matter, and the privilege of being so summoned was not lost upon me. My violin tutor, one Oliver Bardwell by name, nursed a conviction that this honour was purely

the fruit of his own skills as an instructor, rather than a product of my talent and endeavour. rather than a product of my talent and endeavor. Bardwell, a singularly vexatious man, reveled in the task of reminding me that, though my father may hold station in the Lords, the regrettable position of my birth ensured I could not rely upon that fact to provide for my future. In these moments of Bardwell's cruelty, I shall confess, I indulged my imagination in contemplation of what morbid or grotesque fates might befall him on the journey, by happenstance, or even by my own hand. Regardless, it was with both nervousness and delight in my heart that I watched Anik Abbey gradually recede from view. My course was set for Mannheim, a destination where I felt a youthful certainty that my brilliance would at last be acknowledged. As for my towering father, with his unshakable belief in his own celestial significance,

he too disappeared from sight, surrounded by my useless half-siblings, impatiently awaiting their inheritance. Naturally, it was Mr. Bardwell who undertook the role of companion on my journey across the continent, surely harbouring his own dreams of ennobling himself through my imminent accomplishments. I paid little heed to his prattle or ambitions, spending those weeks en route refining my finger patterns upon the time-worn bridge of my cherished Rogerri, at least as far as the unsteady coach would permit. Alas, as the journey continued, Bardwell's practiced manners and veneer of refinement

gradually eroded, and as the summer's warmth yielded to autumn's chill, his demeanour truly soured, a change hastened by each rut and jolt of the aged carriage. Soon a feverish restlessness had settled upon him like a shroud of tweel, and his once discerning eyes had clouded with a frantic, almost manic gleam. I watched with growing unease as shadows danced upon the walls of his thoughts, their forms and nature hidden to me, save for what I overheard him utter beneath his breath, barely perceptible to the ear. At moments it seemed almost as if he were listening to some faraway music, though my instrument lay quiet beside me.

though my instrument lay quiet beside me. I have made mention of the grim fantasies that on occasion possessed my youthful mind, but you must believe me, nephew, when I say I had no part in his death. I do not know what at last caused the frenzied paroxysm which seized him that night. He had slept but little the week prior, and the strain upon his nerves was plain to see. It was as I missed the fingering of what should have been a simple exercise, a mistake I ascribed to the coach's jostling, that he leapt to his feet. Words tumbled from his lips, devoid of coherence, a symphony of mania conducted by some unseen maestro of his own imagination. It was as though some spectre flitted just beyond his sight and grasped his hands, moving them with wild abandon as Mr. Bardwell sought salvation from whatever phantoms haunted

his waking dreams. I often wonder if I might have intervened to save his life. But I was young and frightened, and simply watched in quiet awe. As the storm within his mind reached a crescendo, Bardwell seized the handle of the carriage door, opened it abruptly, and without hesitation hurled himself headfirst into the night. The coachman, noticing immediately what had happened, brought the carriage to a sudden halt, and we confronted the grim spectacle that lay before us. A rock, marked with the grisly remnants of my tutor's troubled mind

and the fragments of his fractured skull, served as morbid marker, looming over the lifeless form of the detestable Mr. Bardwell. In my naivety, I turned to the coachman to ask what we might do. Alas, I saw at once the suspicion that gripped him. He had been witness to many heated exchanges between myself and Mr. Bardwell, and as I approached, it became clear he perceived not a terrified and distraught youth, but a violent killer. A primal fear seized the man, and he acted rashly. I shall not speak of what followed, but suffice it to say that I ended up alone, wandering in the night. How long I walked through those woods I cannot say. I was near insensible, and darkness shrouded all.

I do not know whether to call it luck or misfortune, that twist of fate which saved me, but at length I spied through the trees "'the flickering of flame, "'and a figure huddled close for warmth. "'A gentleman, it appeared, "'of surprisingly refined countenance, "'sat there, casting a stark silhouette "'against the firelight. "'Spricht, you Engels?'

"'I inquired in broken Dutch, "'Mr. Bardwell's indifferent instruction "' instruction having left me still ignorant of any German. Ah, fellow Englishman, came his warm reply, accompanied by a hearty chuckle. You have a look that speaks of hunger, he continued, and offered some crudely skewered morsel nearly charred to ash by the flames. some crudely skewered morsel nearly charred to ash by the flames. Devoid of caution and keenly aware of my empty stomach, I accepted the burnt meat without ceremony. Sitting by the fire, he probed gently into how I came to be there, and I found myself disclosing with a candour I did not intend, the unvarnished truth of not only the night just past, but my life up until that moment. Attentively he listened to my story, his gaze unwavering and seemingly kind.

Then he sighed. Oh, fortune does seem to have forsaken you, he mused, his expression unreadable and his tone strangely conspiratorial. Indeed, I would suggest a stroke of luck is much in order. I agreed, and the smile that then crossed his face, as though my acquiescence had sealed some compact between us, was a most curious thing. The stranger reached over and retrieved from behind the log on which he sat an unusually shaped sack. Within it I could spy an assortment of trinkets, ranging from battered knives and chipped porcelain to fine jewellery, small ivory figures, and even a set of gambler's dice. Luck assumes a myriad of forms, he proclaimed,

his practiced manner warm and inviting, and today takes the form of a simple traveller offering you his wares. You mentioned playing the violin, I believe. He plunged his hand into his curious bag, and after a moment or two of searching, pulled out an instrument of such apparent quality that the providence of its appearance seemed almost otherworldly. Placing a bow upon the string, and in a single fluid motion, he executed an echoing double stop that resonated with a satisfying thrum. that resonated with a satisfying thrum. He said nothing as I examined it, ascribing it no history, no famous maker, or master Luthier. The neck, a paragon of symmetry, led the eye from the deep crimson hue of the up-about, gradually surrendering to a subdued natural mahogany as it descended. surrendering to a subdued natural mahogany as it descended. "'Ah, is this the face of fortune today?' he inquired, observing as my fingers traced the string's span.

At that moment a cry of pain erupted from my throat, a cry that shocked even myself as I realized I had cut my fingertip upon the strings. The merchant only smirked, looking at me as one might a boy who'd touched a cooking pot. I have nothing to offer in return, I confessed, unused to being without means and attempting to return the violin. Then let us not consider it a purchase, but a gift from a true friend. His words were warm, yet there was within them some undertone which seemed to elude my understanding. Before I could inquire further, this man, whose name I had never thought to ask, gestured down the path, and, already beginning to kick dirt upon the fire, assured me my destination was but a few hours' walk away. In something of a daze I left my companion then, and soon enough it became clear that he had spoken true, and my whole ordeal had unfolded less than a day from the

end of my journey. And so at last I made my arrival at the Mannheim School. That nurturing ground of virtuosos who would grace the grandest stages of Europe beckoned with its promise. The luminaries it had borne, illustrious names such as Gruer, Stamitz, Richter, and Franzl, made the prospect of joining it and them almost overwhelming. No mention was made of the manner of my arrival, nor of what might have befallen me on the road, and after some few days I found myself ushered into a resplendent hall where sat a panel of my would-be arbiters. A tremor of apprehension coursed through me as I faced the silent assembly, and it was with an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty that I gripped my new instrument.

Its neck, more slender than its predecessor, sat awkwardly in my hand, and as I began, my fingers fumbled in their search for purchase upon the strings. I attempted the first of my well-practiced recitations, but my playing was inelegant and rough, eliciting only dismissive whispers and derisive muttering from my audience. A surge of indignation and fear welled within me, urged on by the knowledge that I, my father's sin, who had done terrible things to reach that hall, could never return home in disgrace. I executed a jeté, a jarring musical demand for their attention, a declaration that I must be seen and heard. A rapid and perfect volley of eleven notes, past which no murmur, no whisper lingered. I had their complete attention. In that moment of silence, a piercing pain radiated from my left ring finger.

piercing pain radiated from my left ring finger. As my eyes opened, I saw blood pooling upon the neck from where my skin should be, as the uppermost layer of the fingertip dangled, torn, and hanging like discarded parchment. Pain and panic blossomed, but no option remained other than to play, and to play the most daunting melodies my mind could conjure. Sluggish at first, as I felt the strings run their length against my bloody flesh, then rapidly accelerating, crescendos intertwining diminuendos, a dance of command and submission enacted upon the strings. Double stops, left-handed pizzicato and heart-rending spiccato bowed in rapid succession, each note eliciting something deep and primeval. I could see in the faces of my audience an astonishment and something not entirely unlike terror, and when the final

notes rang out at last, a palpable breathlessness blanketed the chamber. I was, of course, accepted and hailed as a singular talent. Yet a suspicion took root in me, a realisation that the positions of player and instrument were not so firmly set with this hungering violin. It was a creature with needs and purpose of its own. The needs were simple enough. Blood, flesh, little enough at first. Skin shaved and cut and singing in pain. And the rewards were great,

as with each performance agony intermingled with melody and my bleeding fingers lubricated those resonating strings. My audience too showed a remarkable appetite for my artistry, and as I progressed through the school my reputation began to grow. I was demanded, hailed, celebrated, and all the while I bled. Did those who listened to me ever truly notice my sacrifice? Did they see the slow transformation of my fingers as each sonata exacted its toll? Applause followed me as each elongated note testified to my life's blood and my pain. Yet still I played for them. How could I do otherwise?

Standing tall, a man in my own right, my grandest ambitions realized. And yet, while admiration rained down upon me, never was I elevated beyond the confines of my origins. The rarefied world of my noble patrons was closed to me. Modest riches adorned me, some small fame clung to my name, but never was I truly allowed to escape the position of my birth. It was only then, in the depths of my pain and bitterness, that I found a secret truth, a truth I impart to you alongside the violin itself. The blood for its strings need not be your own. It was not simple philanthropy that led to my taking on positions of tutelage in those bustling cities where I plied my trade, providing a musical education to the poor and the easily forgotten, asking nothing

in return. Nothing except the occasional student who would not be missed. Perhaps you pail at this and abjure me for a monster, but you will learn that to feed this instrument now yours is of singular importance. Only once did I play it without paying its price, wrapping my fingers in thick bandages so as to prevent its razored touch from cutting me. I had believed my playing would be lacklustre, my performance uninspired, yet the music that came from my instrument that day was somehow more beautiful than it had ever been before. It was lively, pulsing, carrying with it a spirit of motion, an irresistible urge to dance. I looked out upon my audience, a small gathering of minor Austrian gentry, and saw in their eyes

a strange and familiar look, one I had not seen in many, many years, not since the night in the carriage with the unfortunate Mr. Bardwell. They fell upon each other then, a dance of teeth and nails, of tearing and gouging. I watched as a gout-ridden man in emerald silk sucked the eyes from his son's skull and crushed them in his jaws like ripe cherries. A demure young woman, bedecked in gold, peeled the cheeks from her betrothed as she sang to the music that I could not

stop playing. It was only when a candelabra was upended and the room engulfed in flame that I was at last able to cease my recitation and make my escape. Perhaps you shall prove a stronger will than I, and will yet find it within yourself to destroy this hungry thing of wood and catgut. But I cannot. I shall not. For my music, ah, my divine music, is truly a balm for the unhealed wounds of my existence. In its celestial strains I have found solace, a sanctuary woven from ethereal threads, and perhaps you shall find similar. Feed my violin, nephew, for I have given it all that I have, and more.

Dear Grandpa Augustus does always tell such lovely stories. Why on earth would something from the 18th century show up on Freddy? I told you Gwen was behind on her work. Someone likely digitised an old historical record and it triggered the search engine. And so was solved the horrifying mystery of the quite old letter. Gosh, I've got chills. Maybe doing some actual work might warm you up. Yeah, you might get the odd historical record by accident. I wouldn't even bother scoring or assessing it. Whilst I would advise our junior colleague to remember that they are being paid to do just that. Besides,

it still counts towards your numbers. And you really do need those numbers, don't you, Gwen? We all do. Not me. I'm done. Sam? Yeah, pretty much. Then I cordially invite you to bugger off home and think about how important it is to focus on your work. Yeah.

Yeah. Coming, Gwen? Not quite yet. Case and point. Ta-ta, Gwen? Not quite yet. Case and point. Ta-ta, Gwendolyn, darling. Ciao. See you tomorrow. Hmm.

Please. Please. You don't have to do this. We both know I do. Dina? I could disappear again. They would never know. What the hell? To be continued... and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License. The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander Janeywall, and directed by Alexander Janeywall. This episode was written by Cole Weavers,

and edited with additional materials by Jonathan Sims and Alexander Janeywall. With vocal edits by Lorianne Davis, soundscaping by Tessa Veru, and mastering by Catherine Rinella, with music by Sam Jones. It featured Billy Hindle as Alistair, Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid, Anusha Battersby as Gwen Bouchard,

Sarah Lambie as Lena Kelly, with additional voices from Tim Fearon. The Magnus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J. Newell, Danny McDonagh, Lynn C., and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and associate producers Jordan L. Hawke, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, Cestius de Raven and Megan Nice To subscribe, view associated materials or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com

Rate and review us online Tweet us at TheRustyQuill Visit us on Facebook or email us via mail at RustyQuill.com Thanks for listening or email us via mail at rustyquill.com. Thanks for listening. Hi, Cole here, creator of The Town Whispers and Tiny Terrors. I also just so happen to be the writer of the Magnus Protocol episode you just listened to. If you enjoyed the episode and would like to hear more of my work,

you can listen to my multi-award winning horror narrative podcast, The Town Whispers. The Town Whispers takes place in a town called The Fort, where folk horrors and eldritch terrors meet. With over 100 episodes of twisting and turning, sometimes tragic fiction, there's plenty to dig your teeth into. You can find The Town Whispers by searching for it on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you consume podcasts. You can also find out more about The Town Whispers by going to RustyQuill.com. Hello, it's Kareem, the voice of Simon Fairchart from the Magnus Archives, letting you know about our sponsor, Audible. For fans of heart-racing, bone-chilling, and mind-bending stories, Audible has everything you need. Audible is the leader in audiobooks, so you'll always find the best and freshest selection of mysteries and thrillers to choose from.

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Would have been like raisins sliding against the insides of their throats. Trust me, some secrets held are darker than you care to learn, and some fights can't be won, and some truths should be left to rest where they lay. Are you ready? All you need to do is listen.